


Perfection

by Fitzfire



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artificial Intelligence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:51:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzfire/pseuds/Fitzfire
Summary: A man shows up on Eren’s doorstep claiming he’s found a way to drastically increase Eren’s output of art. Strapped for money, Eren agrees to let this Armin Arlert build a machine in his basement. Little does he know that Armin and his creation will become his entire world.





	Perfection

“Eren.”

No matter how quietly or low Mikasa pitched her voice, she always seemed send Eren startling out of his stool. The paintbrush fell out of his hand, hitting the floor and staining the concrete with bright red paint.

“Damn it,” he muttered not to Mikasa but at himself. He stared down at gray concrete floor and the splatter of color on the leg of the stool. The damage was minimal and at least this time it hadn’t gotten on his clothes.

He kneeled down and carefully picked up the brush. The red still managed to stain his fingers.

He’d been mixing colors, attempting to find the same shade he’d used yesterday. Mikasa had mistakenly washed out his pallet the night before, and with the mother’s dress still half finished, Eren needed consistency. It had to be perfect.

He couldn’t manage to find it.

“Eren,” came her voice again.

“What,” he snapped, sitting back in his stool. He started to run a hand through his hair, but then he felt paint slicking through. “Damn it to hell,” he muttered.

“I have your lunch,” she said.

“Leave it on the table.” He grabbed at paper towels sitting on the table next to him. “I can’t eat it now.”

Mikasa didn’t say a word. Porcelain clinked on glass as she set the plate down on the table beside him. Eren listened for the second clank of the tea cup and saucer, followed by the tea pot and the cream, but instead, he heard a cracking and shattering. Fumbling fingers seemed to be contagious.

“Sorry,” Mikasa said, quiet as a church mouse, but Eren wasn’t angry. He’d never really cared much for his mother’s dishware. They were old antiques and could be easily replaced with a modern set. There was no point in being nostalgic. Time marched on.

In the year 2027, the sun seemed to set earlier every day. But Eren stayed up late at night and bright lights left darkness behind. He saw one day pass into another.

Tea oozed out from the fragments of the pot. Eren’s eyes watched it swirl around the paint and run down the slight elevation in the floor. Eren thrust out his hand, offering the roll of paper towels to Mikasa, but she’d already started walking in search of a broom. Discarding the roll, Eren turned back to the painting and ran a hand along the dried edge. His red finger print left a mark. He swore. Ruined.

He hopped off the stool, bare foot coming down on shattered porcelain. Again, he swore.

When Mikasa walked back into the studio, Eren’s latest work of art lay face down on the other side of the room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Only three hours had passed since the beginning of the next day, but Eren was tired and he didn’t want to wait up for the dawn. He ascended up the basement steps, reflecting. Another day gone, and Eren was no closer.

Every painting was a collection of mistakes. Every work he’d ever created was riddled with flaws. A stroke out of place. A color clashing with those around it. A shape’s perspective leaning too far in one direction. A shape malformed. There was almost something, and most of the time, it was everything and more.

Each time he stood in front of a canvas, he tried to tell himself that this would be the moment that he would finally realize his ambitions. A painting without mistakes.

Was that too much to ask for?

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I’m going to place your _Undertow_ in the Exposition next month,” Mikasa said.

“Okay.”

“That makes thirty-three works.”

“Sure,” Eren wasn’t listening.

“I would have liked to wait a little longer, amass a few more works and rent a larger venue, but I think it would be wise to replenish your accounts.”

She had his attention now. “Zeke?”

Mikasa nodded.

“It can’t be helped,” Eren muttered, turning away.

“At whatever point you want me to cut him off-“

“No.”

Eren could feel her disapproval from all the way across the studio, but they’d had this conversation before. She’d get over it.

“I’m expecting around three-fourths of your paintings to be sold, and bringing in a net profit, considering the costs of renting the venue and expenses of that nature, of” the number she named was astronomical.

Eren sat back, discarding his paintbrush. “Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why would you think that?”

“I took an average of what your paintings have sold for in the past and multiplied it by thirty-three.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.” Her voice held no judgment. She’d never expected him to retain any knowledge of that sort. She knew that Eren hadn’t ever concerned himself with the practical aspects of his profession. He painted and Mikasa managed his finances.

“It’s a very poor estimate at this point.” Mikasa admitted. “I’ve only assigned prices to about half of the pieces. Once I’ve finished them all, I’ll be able to give you a more accurate idea.”

“More or less than…” He named the ridiculous number.

“Too soon to tell.”

“Why would anyone pay that much?”

“You’re talented, Eren. The world thinks so.”

The world was too tolerant of his mistakes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Eren,” came Mikasa’s soft voice. Eren was startled yet again, tipping backward and almost spilling onto the floor. Mikasa didn’t comment. He’d had told her long ago to ignore his starts. The second word that came out of Mikasa’s mouth every time she stepped through the door shouldn’t be an apology. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Hmm? Zeke?” No, she would have told him if it was Zeke.

Eren’s brows drew together. “You didn’t tell me we’d have company, shouldn’t they have let you know ahead of time?”

“They did,” Mikasa said. “And I told you about it three days ago. You said that was fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“I don’t remember.”

“Would you like me to remind you twice about these kinds of things from now on?”

Eren waved a hand. “No, it’s fine. Show him in.” Eren blinked as second thoughts started to buzz around his head. “Wait. Who is it? A dealer? Can you handle that?”

Mikasa hesitated. “It’s a bit peculiar. I suppose you could think of him as a potential business partner. It’s an outlandish proposal, but I felt that I had to bring it to your attention.”

“A business partner? Do you need help? I can hire someone else to lessen your workload.”

“That wasn’t what I meant at all.” Her voice had hardened. His suggestion had offended her.

“Well, then I’m really not sure what you mean. It isn’t as if he could paint for me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“His name’s Armin Arlert,” Mikasa said as they walked up the steps together. “He’s an up and coming.”

“Oh?”

“He graduated at the top of his class in an American University called California Institute of Technology.”

“He’s smart then?”

“Brilliant.”

“What does he want with me?”

“I think it’s better if he explains. As I said, it’s quite outlandish.”

Eren nodded, trusting her.

“I’m not even sure if you’ll even think it worth consideration. Still…” She trailed off.

They’d climbed up the stairs and were walking through the first floor. Eren glanced around, orienting himself with the layout of the rooms. Mikasa lived on the first floor, and Zeke came and went to and from the second floor. Eren had a bedroom in the attic, the same one he’d had when he was ten, but he rarely used it. There was a perfectly good couch down in his studio, and a perfectly good door he could use to leave and come back inside, not that he used it often.

Mikasa seemed to keep up a very nice appearance in her part of the house. Eren could appreciate the balance and the color scheme, and he made a mental note to tell her so later. The door at the top of the stairs opened into the hall Eren used to get to the next set of steps. Beyond that was the kitchen and then they only needed to walk down a hallway before arriving in the living room.

A small man sat in an armchair with his legs crossed and hands folded in his lap. He looked up, bright blue eyes shining with intellect and ideas. His blonde hair fell into his eyes for a moment, but this man, Armin Arlert, pushed it out of his eyes impatiently. He wore an ill-fitting suit and an eager smile.

Eren looked to Mikasa for help.

“This is Armin Arlert,” she said again, gesturing toward the man sitting on the couch. “And, of course, this is-“

“Eren Yeager,” Arlert said, jumping out of his seat. “It’s such a pleasure.” He was all of a sudden much too close to Eren, offering a hand to shake. Eren raised his right one and felt a small hand clasping his.

“Likewise.” Eren swallowed.

“Please, sit,” Mikasa said to Arlert. He felt Arlert retract his arm., freeing Eren to quickly retreat into a chair. Mikasa sat down next him and Armin returned to the couch.

“We aren’t doing this in your office in the city,” Eren noted, shifting in his seat.

“I made an appointment with her first,” Arlert rushed before Mikasa could answer.

“I thought you’d prefer me to invite him here instead of bringing you down to the office,” Mikasa explained.

“I wouldn’t want to disturb you from your work,” Arlert said, overeager.

“You’re talking to me now,” Eren said.

Arlert faltered a bit.

“Uh,” That had been rude. Eren needed to fix this. “So, what is it that you wanted to say?” Eren asked, trying to show interest.

Arlert nodded so fast that Eren started to feel dizzy. “See, I majored in engineering in my undergrad and then in graduate school. I’m working on my Ph.D. right now, actually, but that’s beside the point. I minored in art, actually, more in the historical part than the actual creating bit. I don’t have much talent at painting or drawing at all, at least with my hands.” Arlert’s American accent was thick and his rushed words seemed to run together.

“You took art classes in college,” Eren said, trying to make sure he got the gist.

Arlert nodded enthusiastically. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’m a fan of your work.”

Eren’s eyes flicked toward Mikasa. Was this a joke? How could this excitable American fan be any sort of business partner? Her face portrayed no emotion.

Eren looked back at Arlert. “Thank you.” He couldn’t think of what else to say. Arlert smiled. Eren noticed that the man had very white and straight teeth, and when he closed his mouth, Eren noted that he had neither full nor thin lips. Eren took a deep breath as Arlert opened his mouth again.

“Ever since the invention of the photograph, styles and movements of paintings, and maybe art in general, has been moving toward the abstract.”

“Sure,” Eren said, trying to think back to his Art History classes in University. Nothing came to mind.

“But your work isn’t abstract.”

“I suppose not.”

“Your work is much more realistic.”

“Yes.”

Arlert took these short answers as encouragement. “You depict places and things that don’t exist in the real world, some of which couldn’t exist in the real world, but you convince us that it could. It’s right there. It looks like peering through a window, almost. It doesn’t seem possible that you hadn’t painted from observation.”

The man was exaggerating, and the only reason Mikasa was nodding along was because she knew Eren too well. She had a bias.

“Thank you,” he said, shifting again. He couldn’t quite seem to get comfortable in this chair.

Arlert nodded again, another smile splitting his face.

“Mr. Arlert,” Mikasa said after a short silence. “Could you explain to Eren why exactly you’re here?”

“Oh, right.” Arlert flushed pink.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“This is Gabby,” Armin said, running a hand along a sheet of crisp white paper.

“The paper?” Eren asked.

Armin laughed. “No, the machine.”

Eren cast his eyes along the long expanse of the contraption. Laying on the floor, what looked to be a plastic case holding lots of computer things, and wires, and switchboards, and stuff, and whatever it was computers had inside them. The computer looking bit was maybe as large as a medium sized box, and was suspended over a long plastic board which held a piece of thick paper. The computer slid up and down the plastic board along what looked like an oversized bike chain.

“It’s a printer,” Eren said.

“Well, essentially, but it’s so much more than that.”

“So you’ve said.” Armin had been saying a lot of things over the past week. “But how will help make art?”

“It will help you make more art.” Armin corrected, but with less animation than he usually maintained. His mind was somewhere else. “Once we’ve programmed her, helped her learn the ins and outs of your style and technique, she’ll drastically increase your rate of output”

“I still don’t understand,” Eren said, half listened as Armin hurled himself into another long explanation. Eren didn’t bother to try and take in any of the information, he knew he wasn’t going to understand any of it. Honestly, he just liked hearing Armin talk. Eren liked how much he cared. He liked it when Armin looked at him with so much excitement.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“It’s supposed to make my own art,” Eren told Mikasa one night.

Mikasa glanced up at him, blinking, and then looked away. “That is what he said.”

“He says it will speed up my rate of production, increasing our income.”

Eren didn’t see Mikasa’s eye twitch while he spoke. “More money for Zeke to waste,” Mikasa muttered. Eren heard her voice but couldn’t make out any distinct words.

“Are you going on about Zeke?” Eren asked. Mikasa didn’t answer. Eren sighed. “If Armin’s plans do make a difference than you can give yourself a raise. You can give yourself one even if it doesn’t. It’s not like I’m using any of the money, not really.”

“I don’t need a raise,” Mikasa said firmly. “I get my commission from the art sales and a reasonable salary for everything else.” Mikasa had complete control of his finances, she could take as much money as she wanted. Still, she insisted on giving Eren a list of her hours and sales every two weeks to justify the amount money she took out of his account for herself. Eren never looked at it.

“Just save enough for retirement, would you,” he said, knowing that he’d insisted on Mikasa opening account with millions in his name for that purpose, and one for Zeke as well, neither of which Eren’s brother could touch for the time being.

“Of course,” Mikasa said.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Do you have prints of your original works?” Armin asked as he sat at the dining table. He was looking at Mikasa but talking to Eren. He’d learned that these were the type of questions Eren wouldn’t have the answer to.

“Of course,” Mikasa said stiffly. “We sell those as well. You didn’t know?”

Armin shrugged shyly. “I did, but I thought it would be nicer to ask first.” Mikasa didn’t react. Armin plowed on. “Do you have any on hand?”

Eren tried to answer that one. “I don’t think s-“

“There are Zeke’s upstairs,” Mikasa said.

Armin blinked. “Zeke?”

Eren glared at her. “We’re not taking his. They’re his.”

“They’re yours. He never paid for them.”

“They were gifts.”

Mikasa conceded this.

“If it’s not too bold,” Armin began. “May I ask who this Zeke is?”

“My brother,” Eren said.

“His half-brother,” Mikasa corrected.

Armin cocked his head. “I haven’t seen him.”

“He comes and he goes,” Eren said vaugly.

“Why do you need the prints?” Mikasa asked, eyes boring into into Armin’s.

Armin’s eyes lit up. “I’m glad you asked!” Eren supposed now would be the time to tune out, but Armin’s eyes were sparkling, and now they were trained on Mikasa. “See, we-“

“We?” Mikasa asked.

“Gabby and I.”

Mikasa nodded.

“We are going to analyses several aspects in several of Eren’s paintings, starting with the right eye, and fit them all together. I won’t get into a technical description, but suffice it to say that we’re going to learn exactly how right eyes by Eren looks, what the core elements are. With each example, Gabby will be able to extrapolate those elements and fit them into a whole picture.”

“Resulting in...?” Eren asked.

Armin turned his head toward him, eyes burning with excitement. Eren was suddenly very glad he’d posed the question. “We are going to teach Gabby to print a picture that looks exactly like one that you’d paint it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mikasa ordered the prints. Days later, she ordered a long table for Gabby to rest on. Armin went straight to work, coming to the house in the evenings and staying late into the night. Eren could tell Mikasa disapproved, especially at the beginning, but Armin was working on his Ph.D., and Eren stayed awake anyway. He didn’t have a problem with Armin joining him.

In fact, he liked it.

Sometimes, when Gabby was calculating, or sorting, or processing, or whatever it was she did, Armin would drift away and come stand behind Eren. In his life, Eren had almost always preferred to be alone while he worked, but with Armin it was different. He could feel the eyes on him, sure, but the attention was almost pleasant. But only up until Eren made a mistake.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Damn it,” Eren muttered.

“What is it,” Armin asked, a slight tinge of worry in his voice.

“I just…” Eren trailed off. He didn’t want to admit to Armin he’d ruined the painting. The curve of the women’s breast was too low. It sloped down a little too far. She almost looked as if she was arching her back now. He set his paint brush down.

Armin stepped closer, and now Eren could feel other man’s presence behind him, heavy in the air. “I like this one,” Armin said, voice going quiet.

“Like?” Eren asked, feeling foolish. Couldn’t Armin see the mistake slanting through it?

“The soft curves,” Armin said. “The lines through the women and the man behind her, as well as the landscape. I like how vast it feels. Exposed, I suppose.”

A hand ran up the women’s navel, catching her mid fall. No, there was nothing overtly sensual. The women had almost fallen into a stream and the man had caught her. Nothing overt, no.

Eren felt Armin laying a hand on him, palm brushing along the muscle joining the shoulder and neck, cold fingers resting on his collar bone. “I like the contrast between the between the light and the shadows.” Armin leaned closer. “Yeah,” he muttered, eyes intent. Eren let out a shallow breath.

Armin drew back suddenly. “Sorry, uh, I’m going to go check on Gabby.” Embarrassment flushed red through his cheeks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Eren hadn’t been able to concentrate on his work the rest of the night. He was thankful, at least, that Armin hurried out early, he needed time alone to think.

There wasn’t really much to think about.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You’re slowing down,” Mikasa commented as she brought him lunch the next day.

Eren flinched away from his thoughts, looking up from his book. “What?” he asked, a little irritably.

“Your paintings. You’re not finishing them as fast as you used to.”

“Used to?”

“Before.”

“Before Armin?”

Mikasa nodded.

Eren curled his toes. “He’s a bit of a distraction down in the studio.”

“So why don’t you have him move upstairs?”

“Up on the second floor?” Eren asked incredulously.

Mikasa shrugged.

Eren hunched his shoulders. “That’s Zeke’s place. I shouldn’t mess around with his things when he’s not even around.”

“It’s been months since he’s visited.”

“Then he’s overdue,” Eren told her.

“Alright, then you can move it into one of my rooms.”

“Those are your rooms. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Mikasa shifted on her feet. “You don’t need to worry about that, you wouldn’t be.”

“No.”

“Then how about one of your rooms?” Eren went red. He tried to turn his head away but he knew Mikasa saw it.

“Once Armin’s got his machine up and running-“ Eren started.

“That isn’t what this is about.”

Eren said nothing.

“You’ve never cared how fast or how slow you’ve made art. You don’t care about the machine.”

Eren said nothing.

Mikasa left the room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She wasn’t wrong. Eren had to admit that much to himself. She wasn’t wrong and he could hear her vocie as he lay in his bed upstairs, spent and sated, another sock thrown in the laundry he never let her wash.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“The right eyes are done,” Armin told him, voice rising in elation. “So are the left eyes and the noses too.”

“Okay,” Eren said. “Are the lips next?”

“Naturally.”

Eren hopped off his stool and meandered over to where Armin stood, side stepping back and fourth a moment or two. “Can you show me what you mean?” Eren asked hesitantly.

“Ah, well, it’s not really finished yet, not at all.” But he’d obviously accomplished something, after all, he was shining in pride.

Eren wrung his hands. “It’s fine.”

Armin paid him a sidelong glance and then broke out into a wide grin. “Try not to be too disappointed,” he said with disingenuous humility.

The blonde man moved toward the touch screen mounted on the far end of the machine. His finger moved quickly, punching in a few codes and then waiting a moment before punching in another few more. “Alright, here we go,” Armin said, stepping backward.

“What am I going to see?” Eren asked.

“An eye,” Armin told him. “I would have liked to show you two, but Gabby doesn’t have enough data yet. She’d need to know where each facial feature should be placed in relationship to the others. That will require a lot more date. We’ll get there.”

The oversized bike chain started its circle, moving at a smoother pace than Eren had expected. The white plastic sprang to life soon after, running up and down the board in a frenzy. The thick paper on the board had been blank, but after each pass of the plastic box, Eren started to see the machine printing more and more black and colored lines in one centralized location.

“It is a printer,” Eren murmured. “It’s like we’re seeing one from the inside.” He leaned closer, both toward the machine and Armin.

“Yeah,” Armin said. “And I didn’t just tell her to replicate one of the eyes from your paintings. The point isn’t to mix and match facial features. She took all the paintings I fed her and turned them into data.” The back and forth movement of the printer started to slow, and, in another second, it clicked into place at the near end of the board.

Armin took a step forward immediately. But Eren waited a few more seconds, approaching the contraption more cautiously. On the paper, a small oval of muted colors stood out from the white background. Eren looked closer. An eye.

“It’s new,” Armin said breathlessly. “Do you recognize it? Can you attach it to any of the paintings you’ve ever created?”

Eren narrowed his eyes, trying going through the mental list of his most recent paintings. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll show you,” Armin said. The blonde man crouched down on the ground, pulling a box from under the table. “These are all the paintings I’ve had her scan thus far.” Armin lifted the prints out of the box and straightened up. “Look at them,” he urged. “Compare them. I promise you won’t find anything quite like it.”

Eren glanced over at the eye lying below the printer and then he started thumbing through the stack. Picture after picture, everything seemed similar, but nothing was exactly the same. Not a single one matched perfectly.

“You’re right,” Eren said.

“But it looks right?”

“Right?”

“It looks like something you could paint. Something you would paint.” When Eren nodded slowly, Armin’s face went slack. “She did it,” Armin whispered in awe. “She created a new kind of eye, one that could have only been created by you or her.”

Eren turned away, eying Armin. “So what is she?”

“An A.I.,” Armin told him. “And by that, I mean Artificial Intelligence.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“The exhibition’s tomorrow,” Mikasa said as she stepped into the room. Eren and Armin looked up from the table, mouths full of Chinese take out.

“The exhibition?” Eren asked. Something sparked in his mind. He’d forgotten, but he remembered it now.

Armin’s eyes widened. “One of yours?” he asked, turning toward Eren.

“I suppose,” he said.

Armin blinked and then blinked again in Eren’s direction, waiting.

“You can come if you’d like,” Eren said. “I’m sure Mikasa can get you a ticket or…” Eren turned to Mikasa for help. She didn’t move for a full moment, and then she nodded very slowly.

“Truly?” Armin asked, elated. “What time? Where? Should I come here first, or should I drive my own car? What’s the dress code?”

“You’ll have to find your own transportation,” Mikasa said and then proceeded to outline all the rest of the details.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I feel like a bit of an invalid,” Eren admitted suddenly.

Mikasa looked up at him, brow creasing. “How do you mean?”

“Just that.” Eren sighed. “I can’t even tie this myself.”

Mikasa smiled softly, wrapping Eren’s green and blue striped tie around his neck and then pushing it up. Smooth and crisp and flawless. “I can always teach you.”

Eren rolled his eyes. “I have better things to do.”

“Of course.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Of course not.”

Eren grumbled a bit and shrugged her off. “I’m ready,” he said.

Mikasa stood back and admired her handiwork. She’d bought the suit, the shoes, the tie. She’d selected the emblem from the wide array of clothing he had stuffed in a closet. She’d arranged them in a way that he assumed looked very sophisticated. Even when Eren had tried to comb his own hair, Mikasa had insisted on making her own little adjustments. She’d even picked out the cologne. He was, for all intents and purposes, her creation. It was almost as if she was the artist and he was her canvas.

A canvas.

Eren took a step back and regarded himself in the mirror. “You did a wonderful job,” he said, dishing out the kind of verbal praise he always seemed to forget to say. He made a mental note to try and say these things more often, especially because he saw how she smiled and preened.

“But I want to ask you a serious question,” Eren said, already know that he’d sound foolish. “Minus all this,” we waved at the suit and tie and the rest of her work. “On my own, would you say I’m attractive?”

Mikasa blinked. Eren closed his eyes for a long moment. He felt his teeth gnawing into his bottom lip.

“Yes,” she said finally.

“Be honest,” he insisted.

“Then no.”

“You’re making fun of me again.”

“Which answer would you like to hear?”

“The honest one!”

“Yes and no.”

“You’re sure in a good mood today.”

Mikasa sighed. “It depends on the person, Eren. Some might, some might not.”

“The majority or minority?”

“Excuse me?”

“Rate me.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, just try.”

“Am I supposed to take all the faces I’ve ever seen in my life, order them on a linear or exponential scale based on some series of characteristics, and tell you where exactly you fall on that scale?”

“God, Mikasa! Just pick a number!”

“Ten.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Nine.”

“Seriously?

Mikasa crossed her arms. “You don’t want my answer. You want Armin’s, don’t you?”

“What the fuck?”

“He looks at you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not! Holy shit, it was a simple question!” Erne threw his hands up in frustration. “It doesn’t have to do with anyone!”

Mikasa held his eyes for a long moment before looking down. “Eren,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Eren hunched his shoulders. “Don’t apologize,” he mumbled. “Just, I’ll be down in the basement until it’s time to go.” He’d taken three steps out the bathroom door before it occurred to him that painting and perching on his stool would probably ruin all the hard work Mikasa had put into his appearance. “Never mind. I’ll get something quick and clean to eat or something.”

“Seven,” Mikasa called. “On a logarithmic scale.”

Eren had his hand on the doorknob as he looked back at her. “I don’t even know what a logarithm is.”

“I think it had something to do with bell-curves,” Mikasa told him. “I’ll look it up and tell you if you really want to know.”

Eren felt a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Thanks, Mikasa. When will the driver be here?”

“Twenty minutes.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Armin didn’t notice him at first, and Eren couldn’t help but take advantage of that.

He wore a dark navy suit, fitted well enough to accentuate the way his upper body arched back when he looked across the room. He took a light step, almost hovering above the ground, head swiveling, blonde hair ruffling along his collar. He wore a solid green bowtie. It looked ridiculous and yet still adorable.

“Eren,” Mikasa called, but he was already moving away.

“Armin.” Eren reached out a hand to grasp his shoulder but then lowered it. Would it look inappropriate? Seem to forward? He was overthinking this. But then Armin spun around a little too fast and smiled a little too brightly, breaking the subdued atmosphere, and Eren found that he couldn’t cared less.

“This is all so grand,” Armin exclaimed. “I can’t help but feel a little bit out a place.”

“You look fine,” Eren said, wringing his hands behind his back.

Armin rolled his eyes, rocking back on one leg. “You say with your tailored tux and fine get up.”

“Mikasa tells me it’s a suit, actually.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Apparently, but I couldn’t tell you for the life of me what it is.”

Armin laughed. “Mikasa’s so good to you.”

Eren cast a glance over his shoulder and caught Mikasa paying him furtive looks. “I think I’m supposed to be over there talking to people and doing things.” More like he was supposed to be present while Mikasa talked to people and did things. At these events, he wasn’t much more than a set piece.

He wondered if it would be at all seemly to invite Armin along, but before he could decide, the blonde man had already taken the first step.

Eren followed doggedly behind into Mikasa’s sphere of influence. Around her, two suits and a woman in a white dress flocked around Mikasa, fading into the background behind her long and lacy red dress.

“Who are they?” Armin whispered as they approached.

“I don’t know the women or the shorter man, but I have met the blonde one several times.”

“Doesn’t sound like you like him very much.”

“No.” His voice came out much sharper than he’d meant it to.

Armin’s eyebrows shot up. “Why’s that?” But they were now in earshot so Eren didn’t answer.

Mikasa cut her gaze at Armin quickly and then locked a pair of questioning eyes on Eren. Eren half ignored it, only giving her a small tilt of his head. And then his eyes inevitably fell on Jean. The horse faced asshole tried to smile and appear charming, all for Mikasa’s benefit, of course. Eren wasn’t interested.

“Is this Eren Yeager,” the shorter man asked Mikasa. When she nodded her assent, the man had already decided for himself that he’d been right and moved on. “The infamous Eren Yeager!”

“Famous,” Jean corrected the very instant after.

“The name’s Connie Springer,” the man said, an oversized grin lighting up his face. He stuck out a hand a little bit too far into Eren’s personal space. Fighting the urge to take a step back, Eren took the hand and let it be it whipped back and forth by Springer’s strong grip. “I am such a fan of your work,” he exclaimed.

“You are?” A dumb question. The man wouldn’t have shown up to the exhibition if he wasn’t.

“Oh yeah,” Springer said. “Never seen anything like it before. Or I have, but just not anymore. It’s so different.”

Eren nodded slowly.

“Connie, do you care to make any sense?” Jean snarked with thinly veiled fondness. Eren’s eyes flicked between the two.

But Springer ignored Jean. “See, I didn’t really believe Jean when he starting talking about your work.” Eren shifted uncomfortably. “If you want something realistic you take a photograph, right? And it’s all there, everything’s here.” Connie made a wide gesture encompassing the entire room. “It’s so picturesque. Very real and true. It’s so convincing. It could almost be a photograph.”

“Almost,” Eren said.

“Yeah, but there’s something else,” Connie said, tapping his chin. “There’s something even more real. I’m not talking about your technique, there’s something else.” He shrugged. “I’m not an art critic so I can’t really pick anything out specifically.”

“I think it has to do with the people,” the women said.

“Yes!” Springer leaned toward the women, throwing an arm around her. Eren wondered whether the two could be a couple. ”I think that’s just it.”

“They aren’t static,” the women continued thoughtfully. “They’re dynamic. They don’t just seem like models, you can see what they’re feeling,” the women said.

“You can feel what they’re feeling.”

“A photographer can evoke feeling in their photos,” Jean pointed out. “And other artists can take steps in the direction too.”

Springer crossed his arms. “Alright, then. You try explaining it. What makes Eren’s paintings so compelling, then?”

Jean raised an eyebrow, eyes sliding toward Eren. “It’s simple. His paintings emulate a Baroque style, but they depict people and situations unique to this era.” He grinned at Eren. “And he’s damn good besides.”

“Baroque?” Springer asked.

“Sixteenth and seventieth century,” Jean said. He planned to continue, reviling in any chance to show off, but Mikasa interrupted, saving them from a long art history lesson.

“They embody human emotion,” Mikasa said, eye straight ahead. “They represent a moment, an emotion. They’re not just a few marks on a page.”

Jean’s eyes left Eren and glanced at her sidelong. “You’re right,” he said, flushing slightly when she almost smiled at him. He struggled to rephrase what Mikasa had already said. “That depth there comes from the real human experience.” Jean blinked, and then stood up a little straighter, obviously satisfied with his answer. Mikasa nodded in agreement.

Armin shifted beside him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After the five of them broke off, Eren lost track of Armin for a while. He’d catch the blonde man in his peripheral vision, and, when he’d turned, he’d see Armin hovering a few feet away from one of his paintings, squinting with an intensity that Eren couldn’t rationalize.

At some point, Armin felt Eren’s eyes on him. He smiled.  Eren instantly relaxed.

Suddenly Armin was standing in front of him.

“Connie and his wife are buyers?”

“Connie?” Oh right, Springer. “Potential buyers,” Eren explained. “Mikasa will try and reel them in. Springer seems particularly eager, and Mikasa is very good at this. I think he’ll walk home with something.”

Armin nodded, but his naturally cheery face was starting to darken. “What he said was interesting.”

“What?”

“It’s just that Mikasa-Well,” Armin pulled at his suit jacket. Eren cocked his head, waiting for the blonde man to continue. He didn’t.

“It was interesting,” Eren said, trying to prolong their conversation. “The lot of them were throwing around a lot of strange theories about emotion and the like. Doesn’t every artist include emotions in their paintings? People are emotional, that’s how people work.” Now Armin was crossing his arms, eye drifting along the paintings behind Eren’s head. God, what had he said the upset the blonde man now? But he plowed on anyway. “Honestly, the only one making any sense was Jean, much as I hate to admit it. That is before he started kissing up to Mikasa.”

Armin’s eye snapped back to him “You told me you’d give me an answer.”

“What?”

“About Jean!”

Eren’s brow creased. When had he promised that? He tried to think back through the night. Oh right, before they’d moved to talk to Springer and his wife. “What about him?”

“Why don’t you like him? What does he mean to you?” Armin’s eyes didn’t waver, and his face didn’t change.

“Mean to me?” Eren asked, voice cracking.

Armin didn’t blink. He was too close

Eren bit his lip, grimacing and trying to stop himself from thinking. “Why?”

“I just want to know. Do I need a reason?”

Eren laughed nervously. “Usually there’s a reason.”

Armin smiled. “I just want to know about you.”

Well, what could he say to that? “Jean’s just a nuisance, and that’s all there is to it.” The words came pouring out of him. “He’s nothing to me. He comes around here for Mikasa. He’s got a crush on her, always has, even in high school.”

“You knew him since high school.”

Eren swallowed. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s not a big deal. He was always hanging around Mikasa.”

“Did that bother you?” And then Armin started blinking. “So you knew Mikasa since high school?”

“Elementary School, actually.”

Armin’s expression didn’t change. “So it bothered you.”

“Armin-“

He stepped away. “No, I get it.” He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “I need to go, actually. I’ve got some work stuff to sort out.”

“It’s Saturday,” Eren said, a sinking feeling dropping through his chest.

“Yeah, but I’m going to be over…Yeah, you’re right. I’ll handle most of it tomorrow, but there’s a lot.” Armin was running his whole hand through his hair now, finishing off the sentence with a weak shrug.

“Okay.” Eren couldn’t think of what else to say.

“Okay,” Armin said, and then opened his mouth to say something else.

“Eren!” It was Jean calling him from the other side of the room, obnoxious as always. Eren had turned before he’d even had a chance to think, glaring over in Jean’s direction. By the time he’d turned back, Armin was gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Eren shoved the half opened door into its frame, head bouncing along with it. His fist connected with the wood grain, but there wasn’t any fire or rage behind it. He was falling and then he was just sighing.

Mikasa was still at the exhibition. It had closed hours ago but she was probably doing very important things. Selling paintings, overseeing clean up, hooking up with Jean.

Rembered telling Armin something along those lines, or at least about his crush. Armin had wanted to know, he’d demanded an answer. Why did Armin care?

Armin.

What was he supposed to do about him?

“FUck!”

“Fuck?” Eren whispered.

“FUCK!!”

“Oh,” Eren said as if the expletive had been an answer.

Long strings of curses shatter through the silence of his home. The sound of something metal clanging against the tile floor joined the ruckus. The kitchen? It would have been the first place Eren checked anyway.

A tall, blonde haired man with a scruffy beard clutched his hand to his chest, glaring down at a waffle iron, of all things, that lay face up on the floor still open and hot. A broken pair of glasses sat in a pool of batter that was running out from an upended metal bowl. That answered one question at least.

“Zeke?” Eren asked, taking a few steps forward and pulling the plug from the outlet. The waffle iron began to cool. “What are you doing here?”

“Fuck,” Zeke said in answer.

“Is your hand okay?”

“Does it look okay?”

“I can’t see it.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Eren, do I sound okay?”

“Zeke.”

“What?”

“Why are you here?”

“Do I need a reason?” Zeke asked, not meeting his eyes.

“No,” Eren said.

“It’s my house.” The statement didn’t have much weight behind it. Zeke sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than Eren.

He answered anyway. “It’s our house.”

“Yeah.” Zeke nodded, straightening up. “I don’t need a reason.”

“No, you don’t, but I’m sure you have one.”

Zeke deflated. “What’s got you curious all of a sudden?”

Eren shrugged.

Zeke gestured with his good hand. “I’m making waffles.”

“I can see.”

“I turned the waffle iron on, sure, but then I forgot about it, or just didn’t realize how fast it was getting hot.” Zeke chuckled at his own expense. “I reached backward for the egg beater and missed.”

“I’ll find some ice.”

Zeke pointed to the refrigerator. “It’s in there.”

“I’m aware. I need a sandwich bag.” Eren leaned down and started opening cabinet drawers at random.

“Two to your right and up one. No, your other right. There you go.”

Eren pulled a large plastic baggy out of the box. “How’d you know that?”

“Mikasa hasn’t reorganized since she moved in.”

“Her system doesn’t make any sense to me,” Eren muttered.

“That’s because you haven’t taken the time to learn it.” Zeke’s voice was light, but when Eren took his brother’s hand, what he saw was an almost second-degree burn. It must really have been hurting.

“Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?”

Zeke pushed him away. “I’m fine.” Changing the subject, he said, “Where’s your wife anyway.”

Eren sighed “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Okay, then where’s your nanny.”

“Mikasa is finishing up at the Exhibition. She told me to go home.”

“Oh right!” Zeke exclaimed. “That was today! I knew it.”

Eren’s shoulders dropped. “Then why didn’t you come?”

Zeke shrugged nonchalantly. “I didn’t have anything to wear.”

“Come on, with all the money you have access to?”

“Actually, Mikasa’s pretty tight fisted with your money.”

Eren frowned. “I’ll talk to her about that.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“If you’re here asking for-“

“No! God, Eren. I just need a place to crash for a few days before I find another job.”

“What happened to the one you had six months ago?” Eren thought he remembered Zeke getting some kind of customer service job at a department store.

Zeke shook his head. “Lost that four months ago. Been in and out of two more in those last four months. Seriously, Eren, it’s not even my fault this time or the two times before that.” Eren couldn’t help but imagine how Mikasa would have reacted to a comment like that.

Zeke must have noticed the skepticism in his face and hurried on. “Every time it was the same thing! They built machines, man. Apparently they can do everything so much more efficiently, we mere humans can’t keep up.”

Eren grabbed a roll of paper towels and lowered himself onto his knees. Ripping one off and then another, he started placing them on top of the mess of batter still oozing out of the bowl. “Maybe you should think about going to college.”

“Already thought about it.”

“Maybe think again.”

“Eren,” Zeke leaned down beside him, picking up the metal bowl and walking toward the sink. “School isn’t for me, plus I don’t have the money for student loans.”

“You can use mine.”

Zeke turned on the faucet. The sound of running water filled the air. “I don’t want to rely on you any more than I have to.”

“You can pay me back later.”

Zeke snorted. “When does that ever happen?”

“It would be easier to hold down a job, a good high paying job if you had a degree.”

The sound of water ceased abruptly. “No,” he said.

“Then learn a trade.”

“No.” Zeke picked up the glass jar of dishwasher soap. “Here, let me take care of that.” Eren offered him the role of paper towels and Zeke took it.

“Please, Zeke. Think about it.”

His brother shrugged, making no promises.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Eren did make it down to the basement an hour later, but only after sitting down with his brother for a late night breakfast. They’d made a new bowl of batter and Zeke had been careful to keep his hands away from the iron. The resulting batch of waffles wasn't bad. Eren was proud of them.

“How about becoming a chef?” Eren suggested.

Zeke shook his head. “I’ve worked at fast food restaurants before.”

Padding down the stair, he waited for the rush of inspiration. An empty canvas rested against the easel, and Eren felt the weight of it before he’d even reached the bottom of the stairs. When he did see it, he decided the canvas was oriented wrong and maybe too small. When he reached the middle of the room, he turned the canvas on its side, going from portrait to landscape.

On the far right side of the studio, a series of canvases, varying in size and shape, laid against the wall. Eren walked toward it and stopped a few feet away, considering his options. The largest one was very tempting. Yes. Eren moved a few of the smaller ones to the side and took hold of the hulking thing. Its height reached his pelvis and its length stretched out a yard on either. He hauled it over to an empty spot of the room until it faced the door.

He pulled the table, where his oil paints were scattered, up within reach of the canvas and then poured water into a cup. One of his larger brushes mixed into a glob and black paint. When he was ready, he slashed the brush along the surface of his canvas. The slice of paint resembled the arc of a half-moon stretched and tapered on each side. He made a similar mark below it. Both lines formed a rough oval that came together at a sharp point at the start and end.

Eren stepped back, satisfied. His gaze was met by the beginnings of a right eye.

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic where Eren is an artist? Why not?
> 
> For those who are also reading Honesty is the Best Policy, this fic isn't going to get in the way of that. I've finally gotten over my writers block for that. I'll be working on Chapter 6 as of now. I'll probably alternate between this and that until I finish.
> 
> If you like this story, I have a ton of other Eremin fics that you should totally check out!


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